Driving into the Deep South with my Demon
The windshield wipers shoot, "whucka-whucka-whucka," counting off the miles from Montgomery to Mobile
in the light rain here in the low hill country that flattens to the sea like a wrinkled sheet.
The radio stations have all turned static-- except for the ululation of a pentecostal preacher . . .
he's pushing the Holy Ghost--but it's a hard sell even for me, half-hypnotized, here in the car.
I want to stop, pull over, shut my eyes just for thirty seconds--sleep--dream,
but my demon impels me onward over the asphalt edge of the moon-tinged earth
studded with row on row of cotton bolls stuck into the deep black dirt like stars . . . .
My demon's singing-like some forgotten field holler or the highway cry of a bluesman whose sold his soul,
driving me deeper and deeper into the deep South past moonlight and memory-to the lost horizon-home.
copyright 2001 Phoebe Claire Publishing, LLC All rights reserved